Sherlock's Eulogy
by WriteOrLeft
Summary: John delivers a eulogy for Sherlock at his funeral. Was a oneshot. Now it covers John's recovery post-fall. I'll post more chapters if there is enough interest. Please read, review and share!
1. Sherlock's Eulogy

**A/N: ****This is just a oneshot. But I might extend it if there is enough interest. Please review!**

**Disclaimer:** **I own nothing from the Sherlock Universe.**

"And now, John Watson would like to say a few words."

I take a deep breath. Mrs. Hudson gives my knee a reassuring squeeze. With shaking hands, I slowly stand up.

Mechanically, I make my way to the front. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right.

I hobble up to the podium and take out the crumpled piece of paper from my jacket pocket. I've prepared a speech. Some generic, impersonal blather that could apply to anyone. I don't want to share _my_ life, _my_ thoughts of _my_ time with Sherlock with these people who didn't know him. Who will never know him. Who think he's a fake and will never know that he takes his coffee black with two sugars. Or that he would mope around in pajamas for days but could also run around crime scenes in suits. Or that he could go days without eating and still function better than most people. Or that he played the violin at unnatural hours to help him think.

But when I get up to the podium and see the sea of faces, I change my mind.

From the first row, Mrs. Hudson smiles up at me encouragingly. Molly is just barely keeping herself together. Lestrade sits stoically with his back straight and his jaw set. Mycroft has his hands around his mother's tiny ones as they both look up at me with somber expressions.

Just behind them is Gregson. Donovan. Mike Stamford. Angelo. Sarah. Even Anderson is here. A few more Yard officials. Some people from Bart's.

And then there are the reporters. Selfish leeches that I have less than no respect for. They just want a story to print.

So I decide to give them one.

Taking another deep breath, I shove the speech deep into my pocket. I look out towards the room and focus until the reporters are blurred and I'm speaking only to the first row- to the people who _did_ know Sherlock.

Clearing my throat, I hesitantly begin. "You can't unmeet someone. You can't unknow someone. Just a short while ago, Sherlock Holmes was just a name. A potential flat mate that I needed to help me pay rent. Mike Stamford, you brought us together and that is something I cannot even begin to thank you for. As I grew to know Sherlock, I was amazed at his incredible intellect. He helped me... Overcome a lot of problems I had been dealing with. He helped me see myself as useful and needed again. Sherlock Holmes was, in every sense of the word, a mystery. He was the most i intelligent person I know, but astonished me by how stupid he was at the same time." I laugh gently. "He knew so much but was such a child when it came to certain things."

"He helped me get my life back on track after coming back from the war. He helped me see the purpose in my life. He helped me understand why I had never fit in anywhere before. Meeting Sherlock Holmes answered those questions for me." I exhale sharply.

"He taught me about analyzing footprints and how to tell who they belong to. He taught me to tell tobacco ash apart. But most of all, he taught me about friendship. That… that it doesn't _have_ to be expressed every moment of every day to exist. He'd never admit it, but I know Sherlock had a special part inside of him dedicated to the people he cared about most."

Mrs. Hudson lets out a strangled sob. Molly blows her nose. Lestrade readjusts his jaw.

"The last decision he made..." I trail off.

"I will never be able to understand it." I say, shaking my head.

"I can only find solace in remembering that Sherlock had a reason for everything he did. He was impulsive, yes, but he never did anything without analyzing every single outcome. So, he must have known that... that eventually, we'd all be fine." I gulp.

I look up towards the ceiling and force the tears prickling behind my eyes away.

With a shuddering breath, I force myself to continue. "Sherlock was my best friend. And I don't regret knowing him. I don't regret one second of the time I shared with him. Even if it would mean not having to go through all this right now."

I chuckle and continue. "Besides, he was never one for _sentiment_ so he'd probably be disgusted by how upset we all are right now."

This earns a light laugh from everyone.

"He was most likely the most annoying, most frustrating and obnoxiously conceited idiot in all of London, maybe even the whole world. But whatever anyone else says or thinks, Sherlock Holmes was a good person. And I think that's all that matters."

**A/N: I realize that it's a part of many theories that Molly had something to do with Sherlock's plan, BUT I like to think that she cared so much for Sherlock that even though she knew he was alive, she was still broken up at the mere possibility of Sherlock being dead. Plus, she would've had to keep up appearances, right? Please please please review and let me know how I did!**


	2. Recovery

**A/N: ****So I decided to continue this. It's just going to be quick snapshots of John's recovery. I'm not sure how long or how many I'll do, but I felt like continuing, so here it is! Just a warning though, it's kinda sad! I cried while writing the last bit, to be honest. Thanks to everyone who reviewed! **

**Disclaimer:** **I own nothing from the Sherlock universe.**

* * *

"Your speech was lovely, John." Molly says through tears.

I smile halfheartedly and shrug. "Thanks, Molly. You take care, ok?"

She bobs her head up and down, her brown eyes pooling with tears. "Um, you- are you gonna be ok?"

_Huh. Well that's the million dollar question, now isn't it?_

"I'll be fine, Molly." I lie. "I'll talk to you later, alright?"

"Yes, of course. S-sorry. B-bye, John." She scurries off.

The past few hours passed by in a haze. After the service at the funeral home, it was on to the burial at the cemetery.

It's funny, I don't remember making the conscious decision to make myself get up from my seat at the funeral home and walk to the cab. Or to get out of the cab. I don't remember deciding to walk to the cemetery. In fact, I don't remember doing _anything_ up until everyone started leaving the cemetery. It's as though I woke up from a trance that I'd been in since that day outside Bart's.

I woke up when the job was done. When the coffin was buried, when the dirt was smoothed over, when the memory was put to rest.

But it isn't. Not for me.

"Come on, Sherlock. Enough is enough." I mutter. "You can come back now."

I turn around and start making my way back out to get a cab and head home.

"John." Lestrade calls out from behind me.

"Greg." I turn around.

He looks like he's had a good cry. "Look, John. I realize this is the last thing you'd want to hear. Just... Be careful, yeah? Take care of yourself." He says running a hand through his hair. "Let me know of you need anything."

"Yeah. Thanks, Greg." I nod, turning around. "See you later."

"Right. "A-and John? I really am sorry."

I flinch. "I know."

* * *

I shut the door behind me and rest against it. Looking out at our flat from this angle, I suddenly realize just how big it is.

Or maybe it's just because it feels empty.

The wallpapered wall with the yellow smiley face. The bullet holes are still there.

The worn-in couch he once didn't budge from for 2 whole days because he couldn't figure out a case.

The seat he would flop down on at the end of the day.

His violin still sits on its stand near the window, just waiting for him to come play it.

The coffee table has a pile of newspapers he hadn't looked through yet.

The whole place echoes of Sherlock.

This is where I came to know Sherlock Holmes.

This is where we became best friends.

This is where I became me again.

* * *

**"****_No! Sherlock!"_**

I sit up so fast, I snap my neck.

I'm sweating, panting, shaking, the bed sheets all tangled around my legs.

"Sher-" I frantically look around the room. "No.

I struggle to control my breathing.

"_Make each breath deliberate"._ My therapist told me.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. In. Out.

When I've stopped hyperventilating, I sit back up against the headboard. Like a child, I tuck my knees in close to me and my head collapses. Like shutting myself down will make it go away. Like curling myself into a ball will erase the events of the past few weeks. I stay like that until the shaking stops.

It was just a nightmare.

Except it was real.

* * *

**A/N:**** Reviews make me smile! Happy holidays :)**


	3. Bad Days

**A/N:** **This is inspired by when John said he "had bad days". This is a collection of some of his particularly bad days… Just a warning. Anger is a part of grief, and John is _definitely_ angry here.**** Happy reading and please remember to review! **

**Disclaimer:**** I own nothing from the Sherlock universe.**

* * *

I throw plate after plate at the wall, feeling a rush of satisfaction every time I hear one crash and shatter into tiny pieces. When I run out of plates, I move on to glasses, then teacups, then saucers. I relish in the sound, the feeling of destruction.

Sherlock did this once too. At least I'm not using bullets.

I have a faint recollection of target practice in my early years with the Army.

It becomes repetitive. Pick up the dish. Throw. Crash. Pick up. Throw. Crash.

I tell myself that every time something breaks, I'm letting go of a memory of Sherlock. Shattering it so I never have to remember him again.

* * *

I wake up every day_ -every single day - _expecting to hear Sherlock milling about the flat.

When I'm met by silence, I'm crushed. The realization hits me like I've just _flattened_ by a thousand tons of brick. Like I'm trying to swim but I have weights tied around my ankles. Like I'm falling from a-

No.

Don't think about that.

Compartmentalize. Box it away. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

He's gone. And it's alright. It's fine and it wasn't my fault.

It's alright.

I'm alright.

I'm alright. I'm alright. I'm alright. I'm alright. I'm alright.

* * *

I'm a liar.

* * *

When I finally come to my senses, I'm sitting in the middle of the living room. I was rocking back and forth, folded into myself in the fetal position. Tentatively, I ease out of the stronghold I've wrapped myself into. My arms are stiff and my knees crack as I slowly stand up and take in the scene around me.

I inhale sharply.

I've gone insane. _He's_ driven me insane. It's the only explanation. I'm a doctor, not a psychologist, but even I know that this isn't good. Selfish idiot goes and jumps off a building and _this_ is what _he_ makes me do.

Ripped pages torn from _his_ books are scattered all around me. _His _favorite chair is flipped over. So is the coffee table that_ he_ used to put his feet up on. Books, files, notebooks all strewn around the floor like confetti.

And right in the middle of it, the skull. _His_ skull. The one that _he_ used to talk to. The one that used to be up on the mantelpiece. The one thing that I promised myself I would never touch.

How did it get on the floor?

Then I look up and remember.

The mirror is broken and fragmented, but it's enough for me to see myself.

The reflection shows a man with red-rimmed eyes and a swollen face. His hair is messy and disheveled, his collar off-center.

A humorless laugh escapes me as I realize something.

The mirror isn't the only thing that's broken and fragmented.

* * *

**A/N:**** Guys. A lot of people are reading this, but hardly anyone is reviewing! I'm not sure if I should continue this... PLEASE review and let me know how I'm doing!**


	4. Moving On

**A/N:**** Another quick update on John's life. Let's check in and see how he's doing, shall we? Reviews are always appreciated :)**

**Disclaimer:**** I own nothing from the Sherlock universe.**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Moving On**

* * *

Dear Sherlock,

I'm being made to write this letter to you by my therapist. She says it will offer me closure. I still refuse to tell her the things I never got the chance to say, and I probably won't write them now, but I might as well write something because I'm supposed to show her this letter tomorrow.

I don't know what to say other than I'm sorry. I'm sorry I never told you exactly what you meant to me. I'm sorry for complaining about your quirks and habits. I'd do anything to hear you playing violin again. I'd even tolerate you shooting at the wall. I'm sorry for keeping your cigarettes hidden. I should've let you have some more often. I'm sorry for leaving the flat when I'd had enough of your antics. I should have stayed with you. I'm sorry for being annoyed by your experiments. Life at 221B is not the same without them. I'm sorry for not understanding you. I know you weren't indifferent towards people, you just couldn't help it sometimes. But you had the biggest heart out of anyone I've ever known. You never said it aloud, but I know you cared. You said it yourself. You don't have friends. You only have one.

So do I, Sherlock.

People always had the wrong idea, but I do love you. Just not in the way that everyone thinks. You were my best friend. You are my best friend. I will never know anyone else like you. You were a piece of me. You still are. You always will be.

I'm sorry for leaving Bart's that day. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I should have realized that Mrs. Hudson was fine. I should have known that you would have helped if she truly was in trouble. You are not a machine. Why did I call you that? Why did let my last words spoken to you face-to-face be so terrible? I should have stayed with you. I should have stayed. I should have stayed, maybe you'd still be-

No.

It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault.

I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry for wasting so much time being angry with you. And to what avail? Nothing came of it. I only hurt myself.

You wouldn't have wanted me to be so broken.

Well. You wouldn't have understood it anyway, would you?

So I've decided to move on. No more anger. No more sadness.

There is no point.

But I'll always remember you. I'll never forget you.

I'll always love you. I'll always miss you.

And I'll always be waiting for you to come back.

Always,

John


End file.
